


Let Love Conquer Your Mind

by theowlandtheunicorn



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hotels, Hurt/Comfort, Nothing Happens because this is Broadchurch, Overthinking, Sharing a Bed, Swearing, Two beautiful idiots, and soppy beyond repair, it's shippy though, no idea what to tag it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 17:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18974383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theowlandtheunicorn/pseuds/theowlandtheunicorn
Summary: History has a way of repeating itself, if only to offer a different outcome. Post series.





	Let Love Conquer Your Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Several things:
> 
> 1\. The title is from a song called Warrior by Aurora Aksnes. I wanted to call it something else but the song was stuck in my head while I was writing and I had no idea why because the melody doesn't even fit the mood, and then it just struck me that the lyrics aren't... entirely... unfitting
> 
> 2\. This is way too long for a story in which so little happens. I know neither how nor why that occurred.
> 
> 3\. I'm years late to the party because I only watched BC recently and fell in love with it, and I'm slightly terrified of posting this. Still, I hope you enjoy <3

The bed is beautiful. Neat and spacious, with pretty blue sheets and tiny little flowers on them, pillows that are fluffed up just the way she likes them, and a soft-looking blanket strewn across in a casual yet inviting manner.

Ellie glares at the entire thing and throws her bag on the table.

“Why the bloody hell is this always happening to us!”

Beside her, Hardy mutters something that she doesn’t quite catch.

“I’m sorry?”

“… I said once.”

She stares at him. He stares back.

“As in, not always,” he clarifies, frowning. “It happened once before.”

“Oh, keeping count of that too now, are you?”

“Just saying, two times isn’t exactly always –”

“Are you seriously doing this?”

He sighs, and apparently unable to reply with bloody words like normal people, gives her one of those exasperating, long-suffering looks of his. She scowls and lugs her suitcase towards the bed with a bit more force than necessary, then doubles back and kicks the door shut.

Hardy gives her one more glance and treads off to his side of the bed.

“Idiots,” she mutters as she takes her jacket off and throws it across a chair. “Just how stupid do you have to be to book a single bloody room for two people? But hey, at least we should count ourselves lucky ’cause it’s one with a double bed! I mean did you even hear what that woman said? I’ve half a mind to go down there and –”

“’S not that bad,” Hardy says.

She gives him a look.

“I don’t mean them, they’re bloody morons. But it’s not like we can look for someplace else at this hour, is it?” He gives the bed a vague look. “It’s large enough, we can just...” He waves a hand uncertainly. “Do what we did last time.”

“’Cause that was so comfortable.”

He shrugs. “We survived.”

“Only because our lives were such shit at that point that a stupid thing like that couldn’t possibly make them any worse!”

Hardy sighs and rubs his face. “It’s just for one night, Miller, if you hadn’t been too busy telling them where to put the bloody room key you would’ve heard we’re getting the other room tomorrow, so –”

“How the fuck are you being so calm about this?” she barks. “The station paid these people, two separate rooms with separate beds! Doesn’t it make you angry that they think they can just lump us together like this?”

“Of course it does, but what can you do? They’ve apologised a hundred times, it’s not like they can kick people out at this time –”

“I never thought I’d say this, but be less nice and reasonable, please!”

He rolls his eyes, heaves another sigh, then goes and sits on his side of the bed and starts unpacking his suitcase. And she can feel the frustration building inside of her, rising to her throat in the shape of more things she could gripe at him about –

“I can sleep in the car.”

–  and just like that, it collapses.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’d freeze to death.”

She sits on the bed with her back turned to him. With a silent sigh, she unzips her suitcase, grabs her pyjamas, underwear and cosmetics bag, and marches off into the loo.

The lights flicker on and off before settling tentatively for on, revealing a gray, dingy bathroom with an ancient-looking shower.

Ellie walks in, and gets promptly hit with cold, damp-smelling air and a pervading aura of dreariness.

A cockroach dashes behind a sink and disappears into a hole in the wall.

Fuming, she slams her stuff on the vanity and takes her clothes off. She’s just about to turn the water on when the boiler catches her eye. 

She pokes her head out the door.

Hardy, in the middle of unpacking, raises his head and gives her a very wary look.

“There’s only enough hot water for one of us,” she states neutrally.

He looks at her for a couple more seconds, then waves a hand in her direction with a scowl.

Ellie closes the door again, hiding a grin.

She turns the water on and steps in.

As the tepid flow hits her body, she tries not to look at the shower floor,

to ignore the fact that if you squint, the water isn’t really clear but a sort of transparent yellow,

or the fact that she could count, on the fingers of her hand, the microscopic mould-free patches of clean wall above her.

For several minutes, there’s nothing but the sound of water, and it almost makes her forget.

*

Ellie dashes towards the bed, shivering in her yellow pyjamas, and jumps in. Hardy is already on his side, lying under the soft-looking blanket and reading a newspaper with a vaguely disgusted expression.

Picking up the blanket, Ellie frowns. Up close, it’s much thinner than she originally thought.

“What the hell is this?” she asks Hardy, who lowers the newspaper and gives her a weary look from behind his glasses. “Is this all they’ve given us? They’re forcing two adults to share a bed in a room with no heating and they give us this shitty thing?”

“Apparently, yeah. I’ve closed the window though, so it should be getting warmer soon.”

“I don’t care about the bloody window, those twats think they can –”

“Do you intend to keep whinging the entire night?” Hardy asks, taking his glasses off with annoyance. “’Cause freezing to death in the car is sounding pleasanter by the second.”

“For god’s sake, no, I just wanted to stay in a normal hotel room by myself! Is that too much to ask?”

Hardy doesn't reply, and after a couple of seconds, Ellie huffs, turns away from him and covers her face with her hands.

Of course she’s being just _ridiculous_. She doesn’t need him looking at her like that to know she’s being ridiculous. And of _course_ it isn’t a big deal. The hotel people are idiots, and in her mind, she’s already written a nasty review to post somewhere, or maybe send to Olly and let him be useful for once. But of course it isn’t such a huge problem she and Hardy have to share a bed.

It’s just for one night.

It’s not like they haven’t done it before.

It’s not like she doesn’t know how it goes.

They’ll both keep to their respective sides, they’ll sleep, she’ll wake up just as tired as any other morning, and all lingering weirdness will be forgotten by breakfast.

And everything will be fine.

Ellie takes a deep breath and feels a big chunk of her anger ebb away, only to reveal that

her mum’s gone and

her dad’s being a menace and

her son was friends with a rapist –

 _Don’t go there_.

She swallows down the tears and clears her throat. She glances at Hardy, only to find him already looking at her.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “Had a fight with Tom and dad earlier. Things got said and...” She rubs her nose. “Being a dick and taking it out on you. It’s not your fault everything’s shitty here as well.” She swallows. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Ever so slightly, he turns towards her.

“You wanna talk about it?”

She shakes her head. “I’m knackered. Just need a bit of peace and quiet.” She gives a hollow laugh. “Christ, I was actually looking forward to this seminar. Can you imagine? I mean, how pathetic? Kept thinking how nice it was gonna be. Going away for a couple of days, getting to take nice long showers, lie in bed and be _warm_ and watch shit telly before falling asleep.” She sighs. “Just wanted to relax a bit. And look where we are.”

“You still can relax with me here,” Hardy says, and promptly grimaces for some reason.

Ellie stares at him.

“Do all that stuff,” he continues, as if nothing happened. “’Cause you can. Not the warm bed thing, apparently, but –”

“No, I bloody well can’t. You hate shit telly. You hate _good_ telly. You –”

“Just watch the bloody TV, Miller. It’s fine.”

“Like hell I will. I know what that’d be like, with the constant sighing and the emanating resentment. Not my idea of fun, thanks. Let’s just sleep, we’re both tired anyway.”

Hardy folds up his newspaper, places them on the bedside table along with his glasses and turns off the lamp. They both lie down.

The pillow’s comfortable enough, at least, but contrary to Hardy’s prediction, the temperature in the room seems to be falling by the minute. Ellie pulls the flimsy blanket up to her eyes, uncovering her feet in the process.

“Fucking hell.”

“We could ask for more blankets,” Hardy mutters.

She mumbles her agreement, but getting up and facing the freezing air downstairs sounds dreadful.

She turns her head towards him.

“You wanna go?”

“Not particularly.”

She bites her lip.

He sighs and gets up. Ellie promptly snatches the remaining amount of blanket and tucks it in around herself, shivering as the cold air assaults her pyjamas.

The sound of his footsteps soon fades and leaves her in silence, punctuated only occasionally by gusts of wind howling at the window. It’s a kind of heavy, leaden silence that burns in her ears and seems to make everything louder – every breath, every movement, every blink, it seems.

She sighs. Falling asleep will be a bloody piece of cake, especially with Hardy there.

For a while she just lies in bed, looking around the small, bleak room and the scant pieces of furniture. She spots the remote control on the TV stand and watches it wistfully for a couple of moments, but it’s not worth getting out of bed for.

Still, perhaps she’ll take Hardy up on his offer when he comes back.

Seconds tick by. Ellie tries closing her eyes, but they seem to snap back open out of their own accord.

She stares at the ceiling.

Wonders if Tom’s already gone to bed or he’s staying up late again.

Tries not to worry if Fred was sad Mum wasn’t there to kiss him goodnight, even though Lucy insisted he’d been fine.

Before the tears have managed to fill her eyes, Ellie bolts upwards and heads downstairs.

Hardy is still at the reception, tapping his fingers on the desk and looking very much like he usually looks.

“What’s taking so long?” she whispers.

“No one’s here,” he says, glaring at the desk.

“… Of course they aren’t.”

“Tried ringing the stupid bell and some idiot yelled at me to stop, and then –”

“Oh, just come upstairs,” she says. “There’s no point. We’ll just make do with what we have.”

*

He follows her back to the room and they lie down again. Miller immediately snags the entire blanket and wraps it around herself, then grimaces a second later and unwraps with an apologetic expression. She covers him herself then, her movements gentle, almost ginger as they hover over his body, as if she’s trying very hard to make up for the way she’s been acting. Her hands pass in front of his face, leaving a faint scent of chamomile in their wake.

She tucks the blanket in around herself, turns towards the wall and shudders.

And damn it, it _is_ cold.

Before he can think about it –

“We could –”

He squeezes his eyes shut and doesn’t finish the thought.

She turns and looks at him.

“What?”

“Nevermind.”

“No, tell me.”

“Just thought we could…” He takes a deep breath. “Scoot closer.”

Miller gapes at him.

“Body warmth and all that,” he clarifies, clearing his throat.

“Are you insane?”

“No.”

“What the actual hell?”

“Fine, forget it, it was just a suggestion.”

“Stupid suggestion,” she mutters.

“No, it’s not, in fact,” he retorts, “it’s a perfectly logical –”

“In what world is that logical?” she asks, and scrambles up to a sitting position, her eyes incredulous. “Have you somehow missed what everyone’s been saying about us? Do we seriously need this to become a rumour as well?”

“How do you imagine anyone would find out?!”

“I don’t bloody know! But people _guess_ these things or make them up and it’s twice as embarrassing if it’s true! If we don’t do it then there won’t be anything to find out!”

“Fine! Be cold then. God’s sake.”

He turns towards the wall, his head hitting the pillow with a bit more force than necessary. He can hear her huff behind him, but she makes no move to lie back down.

After a few moments, she suddenly gets up and storms off to the bathroom.

The silence falls around him as it does after a storm.

It’s nice, actually.

Peaceful.

Definitely easier to bear than weathering the hurricane of emotions that is Miller.

… And he’s _so_ tired, so incredibly bloody tired it feels as if his very bones are weighing him down, begging him to just close his eyes and sleep.

He heaves a great sigh, gets up and walks towards the bathroom.

He gives the door a knock.

“Miller.”

Nothing.

“Just come back.”

The answer comes in the form of a sudden flow of water from the tap.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he states, and a thought makes him regret it almost immediately.

A thought that perhaps, for some unknowable reason, she might be crying in there.

He stands there for a few moments, his head lowered.

“Look, I’m sorry if I –”

He fishes in his head for a way to finish this sentence, and nothing comes to mind. He waits there for several more moments, then walks back to the bed and puts his face in his hands with a quiet groan.

He knew he should have just stayed quiet. He bloody knew it, knew there was no word or touch or _anything_ of his that could reason with her while she was in that kind of mood, and he went and said something anyway, and ruined whatever remotely decent end this shitstorm of an evening might have had.

He raises his head, eyes trailing across the little room, and his glance falls at the window.

The curtains sway slightly in the wind that's seeping in through the cracks.

A few drops of rain start drumming on the glass.

*

A cockroach skittles curiously her way, makes a wide circle around her feet and disappears somewhere in the wall, following its friend which did the exact same thing a minute ago.

Ellie _hates_ this hotel.

Even more so, right now, she hates herself.

For making a scene and not knowing how to go back,

for ruining Hardy’s evening as well as her own,

for being one of _those_ people, who can’t just keep their petty anger to themselves and have to go around dragging everyone else into their misery and making them feel like shit too, and on top of everything,

 _he’s_ apologising to _her_ , which makes her want to go and hide in a hole somewhere with the cockroaches,

and she almost hates _him_ for acting so mature and normal as if everything’s just grand and it’s not only fine that they’re being forced to _share a fucking bed_ , again, but they might as well actually sleep right next to each other.

Well, it’s not as if anything would happen.

Still. Better not risk it.

She bites her lip.

Really, though.

What _would_ happen?

They’d warm each other up.

Fall asleep.

She’d be warm.

It’d be lovely to be warm.

God.

She takes a deep, shaky breath and puts her face in her hands, wiping her eyes.

Why did she have to make everything so bloody emotional all the time? All he wanted to do was help them both have a slightly pleasanter night and she bit his head off for it. Of course no one would find out. Of _course_ nothing would happen. It wouldn’t have been _emotional_ cuddling, not on his part anyway. They’re adults. Their lives are less shitty than three years ago, all things considering. It’s not a big deal. Utilitarian cuddling, really. They’d be stupid not to do it.

Except for the fact that if they did, she has no idea what it would do to her, and she doesn’t think she has the strength to find out.

She turns the water off, wipes her eyes again and blows her nose, then gives herself a brief check in the mirror. Her hair is a mess and no matter how hard she tries, she can’t seem to banish that sad, tearful expression from her face. The idea of facing him after everything makes her cringe.

It’s no more than she deserves, though, so it’s just as well.

She takes a deep breath and opens the door.

“Look, you were right about everything you said and I –”

The room is empty.

“Hardy?” she calls, but of course there’s nowhere he could be, the room is the size of her pantry.

She frowns. Has he gone to try for more blankets again?

She sits on the bed and bites her lip.

Taps her foot on the floor.

Plays with the frayed ends of the blanket.

After about twenty seconds, she grabs her jacket and rushes downstairs.

*

A loud sound makes him jump from the half-sleep he’s drifted off to. He looks blearily out the rain-spattered window of the car to find Miller there, as bright as a sunflower in her orange jacket and yellow pyjama bottoms, looking absolutely murderous.

He rubs his eyes, sniffles and rolls the window down. Tiny drops of rain hit him, and he draws the coat closer to his face.

“Are you out of your bloody mind?!” Miller screeches. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I was _trying_ to _sleep_.”

Her eyes widen and she opens her mouth, and in the briefest of interims, he can see that it’s one of those situations where everything he says will be the wrongest thing he could have said, he’s _sure_ of it, and he smothers down the resigned hopelessness and tries anyway.

“Look, it’s not that much colder than the room and I’ve got the pacemaker this time, so it’s fine. Really. Go sleep in the bed and don’t worry about me.”

He sighs as he watches his prediction comes true. She splutters for a few moments, apparently too outraged for words, before,

“ARE YOU COMPLETELY FUCKING INSANE?! STOP BEING AN UNREASONABLE KNOB FOR TWO BLOODY SECONDS –”

“ _I’m_ being unreasonable?! I was making a sensible bloody suggestion –”

“You wanted us to bloody cuddle! As if it weren’t awkward enough that there’s only one –”

“You were cold! _I_ was cold! The logical thing to do –”

“And you thought you’d freeze to death to prove your point?!”

“You were obviously uncomfortable with sharing the bed –”

“I’m a tiny bit more uncomfortable with you getting pneumonia and dying! Christ!”

She grabs him by the arm and practically drags him out of the car, and then all the way back to the hotel, muttering angrily to herself.

“– finding ways to bloody die, if it’s not the stress and the heart then it’s – _will you hurry up, I’m soaked!_ ”

*

Not counting the glares, they haven’t said one word to each other since entering the hotel, and ‘good night’ sounds ridiculous. Ellie fluffs her pillow violently, turns to her left and tries to make herself as small as possible.

She draws her knees to her chest and pulls the flimsy blanket up to her ear. A great shudder shakes her, and the cold rolls across her body. She can still feel the wind and the rain down her neck, and there’s a heat in the back of her throat that feels like an impending cold. She might as well put her jacket on and sleep like that, because she doesn’t think she’ll ever get warm.

Hell, she doesn’t think she’ll even be able to stop shaking, or get up to reach the jacket –

There’s some rustling from Hardy’s side, and she winces as cold air finds its ways to her again.

Suddenly, hand-shaped warmth touches her forearm under the blanket.

She freezes.

The hand stays there, and the ice-cold silence around them echoes with waiting.

A lump forms in her throat.

“We’re not doing this,” she says.

There’s more rustling, soft motions of the mattress, and steady, solid warmth presses against her back and neck, making her shiver even more.

“Not doing this,” she whispers.

He’s so close to her right now that she can feel his breath on her hair.

She shudders again, and this time, his body takes it in.

*

It’s quiet and warm and almost surreal. Her body shaking against his, and her somehow being even smaller than she looks, as if she’s condensed her entire self into a tiny, shivering ball. Her curls are everywhere, caressing his face all softly cold and damp from the rain, along with that untraceable scent of chamomile, and he wishes he could close his eyes and just fall asleep right there. But they’re both so tense and he can’t imagine how it would ever happen.

What if,

just what _if_ ,

they both relaxed?

What in the world could she be thinking?

Does she feel like falling asleep like this too?

Well, probably not, she’s made that perfectly clear.

Not that it matters.

The moment he touched her opened up a hundred possibilities as to how this night will go, and none of them involve him being able to fall asleep any time soon.

… He’s _hugging her._

She sniffles.

“Bloody hell.”

“Ellie.”

“Just shut up.”

He squeezes her tighter, nuzzling his face into the back of her neck. His hand gently strokes the yellow cotton covering her collarbone.

She puts a hand over her mouth.

“See, this is exactly why I didn’t want –”

His heart constricts. And even though he _knows_ , in his mind, that it’s nothing to do with him, that all these sobs have probably been part of her for far too long not to come out at the slightest nudge of gentleness

(hell he’s seen it in her eyes three years ago, seen a very similar scene fade into impossibility as she shook his hand and left the hut, when he thought _good, it’s probably better this way_ and almost believed it),

although he knows all of these things and knows that him hugging her is not the reason for how she feels, it takes quite a bit of effort not to feel responsible.

Because he also knows that if he’d asked her before he did it, she wouldn’t have wanted to. She never did.

But he can’t let her go now.

*

The tears stop after a while and she can breathe normally again. Warmth has trickled from her back and shoulders, slowly, into the rest of her body, and the wet patch of pillow under her face is the only thing that feels uncomfortable.

Well, that, and her feet are still cold.

It’s not important, she thinks. It’s not as if she can ask him to put his leg over hers –

and yet –

how would it feel if he could warm _all_ of her, down to –

She winces, physically, at this train of thought. Hardy, probably, thinks it’s from the cold, and ever so slowly, gently and almost impossibly, he wraps her even closer.

How much time has passed?

How is it possible they’re still doing this?

Because really,

whatever way you choose to look at it,

now they’re just _…_

_Cuddling._

The thought makes her feel like every cell in her body has suddenly gone very still, and the entire atmosphere of the room seems to change.

_Does Hardy know we’re cuddling?_

He _must_ know.

Because co-workers don’t do this. No matter how cold it is.

Friends don’t do this, not at their age anyway.

So,

what

are

they?

Answering that ever-present, ever-ignored question niggling in the back of her mind has never seemed so important.

Or, indeed, so terrifying.

*

She has no idea that Hardy’s been wondering the same thing.

Well, not quite the same, but close enough.

He’s wondering if her limbs have gone numb for not daring to move as well,

if she’s feeling warmer and more comforted than she’s felt in ages too,

if she’s experiencing the same flurry of emotions that seems to be sucking the air out from his chest,

if she can read his feelings in the touch of his fingertips, or his heart drumming against her back, or the very small, very tiny, almost non-existent pockets of space between them,

and if perhaps, just perhaps, it means something to her that _he’s_ there to hold her while she cries _or_

she’s just glad she’s with a friend, because they’re friends and this is just what –

“We’ve got to be careful, though,” she says, in a strangely calm tone.

He swallows.

“About what?”

“This.”

His heart starts pounding even harder.

“’Cause if we’re not, then…” She breathes in and it sounds like a sob. “And I can’t –”

“Okay. Okay.”

“I _can’t_.”

“You don’t have to.”

It feels like she’s barely breathing. He keeps holding her.

For several minutes, until the new flood of tears passes, it’s enough.

“Do you know that this is the only fucking thing in my life that’s simple,” she says suddenly.

She turns her head around so she could look at him. Her eyes are huge and wet and heartbreaking, but there’s a strange sort of determination in them. He doesn’t change his position.

“This. Me and you. We work together. Drive each other crazy most of the time. But we’re friends. We are. Sometimes we cook for each other and your kid babysits my kid and… oh sod it, we’re there for each other and that’s the best part of it. It’s _simple_.”

“Aye.”

She gazes at him for what seems like eternity. Then she turns away again, and he waits for more, wants this conversation to continue and hopes she will be the one to continue it. To hear whatever kind of acknowledgement there is that it’s okay he feels like this, that they both know it’s either anything but simple or the simplest thing in the world, that they can discover which one is it together, and that they’ll still be there for each other whatever happens.

What he hears a few seconds is,

“Fred drew you.”

For a moment, he isn’t sure he’s heard her well.

“Sorry?”

“Well, he drew a brown-haired stick figure,” she clarifies. “Looming over the others like a big thin tree. None of his other figures are stick, by the way.” She stops nattering long enough to turn on her back. Both of them pretend his arm isn’t still around her, but he can feel her tense up again as soon as she settles. “Have I told you that?” she asks the ceiling.

(She must know she hasn’t, really, who even –)

“No.”

She gives a minute shrug. “Telling you now.”

He doesn’t speak.

A chuckle. “He did a cute one of Daisy the other day. All rosy-cheeked with a bright big smile. I sent her a photo of it. She show you?”

“Aye, she did.”

“Said she’d have it framed. I think he’s a bit taken with her. Hope she doesn’t mind. I know he can be a bit of a handful.”

“No, she adores him. Always wanted a wee sibling.”

He feels, rather than sees, Ellie’s eyes snap wide open. If it’s possible for her to go any more still, she does.

His throat goes very dry.

“She – I _meant_ –” He squeezes his eyes shut. “She likes kids,” he croaks. “That’s why –”

“Yeah,” Ellie says breathlessly.

His heart feels like it’s about to burst from his chest.

There are words he has to say right now, he thinks miserably. He knows there are words for these kinds of situations, and he should probably say them very soon so she’d be able to start breathing again, but he’s no bloody idea what they are and the more time passes the less likely it is he will ever know. The one good thing is that between her babbling herself into some sort of calm and the idiotic thing he said, she seems too shocked to keep crying, which just might be worth the crushing mortification he can feel burning upon his cheeks.

Minutes pass by in silence.

“Hardy.”

“Yeah.”

“I need it to stay simple.”

He swallows. “I know.”

“If we…” She takes a deep breath. “If you push this into complicated I swear to God I will kick you.”

He gives a tiny shrug. “Been threatened with worse,” he tries. “Mostly by you.”

“Not bloody likely. I’ve got a mean kick,” she jokes, and her voice has that broken note again, and _god_ , he thinks, _I know, I remember_ , and _what a terrible joke_ , and _could it be more out of place?_

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You _hugged_ me.”

“You were cold,” he says quietly.

“So what?” Her voice is sharp around the edges now, as if she’s trying to sound angry but can’t quite get there for some reason. “I’m always cold. We live in Broadchurch, for fuck’s sake. You can’t go around hugging me every time I’m –”

“Why is it such a big deal?”

She stiffens again.

“It’s not.”

“Right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that…”

Now, on the other hand, there are too many words, and they either sound accusatory or insensitive or petulant or just plain bloody idiotic.

None of these things are how he wants to sound.

He doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t prompt him again.

He almost wishes she does.

Seconds tick by.

He waits for her to do something, give him some sort of clear sign or signal or _anything_ that might tell him what she wants to happen now, but she just stares at the ceiling without moving.

He keeps looking at her.

Many times over the years, he’s wondered how it’s possible for her to feel so many things in such a short period of time. He’s usually down to one, two, no more than three emotions dragging after him like lead, aided by a dose of exasperation, usually, if she’s there. Her emotions seem to him like a flock of birds swirling around her head, tiny and fast and slightly mad, and he never knows which one’s going to fly at him as a result of something he does or says, or even the things he doesn’t do or say.

(It used to be annoying, at first. It’s not anymore.)

Now, though, her eyes seem curiously blank.

They stay like that for while, and he thinks he could fall asleep like this, at least, maybe.

*

Ellie doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to sleep again.

Not tonight, anyway.

Not if he keeps breathing softly into her neck and being her own personal blanket and _gazing_ at her –

“I’m warm now,” she says gently.

There’s a moment in which she regrets it, and almost opens her mouth to undo it, right before he slowly disentangles from her.

“Thanks,” she says, forcing a smile, and winces, wondering if that sounded as stupid to him as it did to her.

“Don’t mention it.”

(If his tone’s anything to go by, it did.)

He turns to his back too, and moves a tiny bit away from her. The cold air immediately fills the space between them. It’s easier to bear this time, but still not very pleasant.

Ellie takes a deep breath and, without moving her head, risks a glance at him.

At that perpetual frown and the ruffled hair and the tense look in his eyes, trailing away into the darkness of the room.

He moved the second she said she was warm.

She smiles.

He’d do anything she’d ever ask of him.

She’s as certain of that as she is of the fact she would, also, do absolutely anything he’d ever ask of her.

Why did she never let him touch her before? He’s so warm.

“Hardy.”

“Hm.”

“Could you turn around, please?”

Nothing happens at first, and then, slowly, they both turn towards each other.

He gazes at her with a strange,  guarded expression.

If she didn’t know any better, she’d think it’s almost expectant.

Could it be, though?

It’s bloody Hardy.

Right?

What could he possibly be expectant about?

He, the guy who stole her job, who never thought to touch base in _years_ and who still infuriates her on a daily basis, with those disgusting salads he insists on making her and that lovely strong tea –

The space between them suddenly feels like miles.

And really, Ellie thinks, it feels like _shit_.

They keep staring at each other in silence.

She doesn’t want to initiate it, and yet, she can at least admit to herself that she wants to. That there's something inside of her that’s pulling her towards him like a magnet. And if he hugged her again right now, she thinks, she’d melt into his arms and never leave.

_God, how soppy. What’s the matter with me?_

He doesn’t, in any case. He just looks at her.

It almost feels the same.

It makes her want to touch his face, the wrinkled skin around his eyes, brush her fingers against it like a sea breeze would. He’s got soft eyes, she thinks. Soft and kind. It really stands out when he isn’t yelling or annoying her.

Not that they always look like _this_. In fact, she doesn’t think she’s ever seen them look quite so –

Her heart picks up speed. _Christ, what_ is _it with him? Why does he keep looking at me like that? Is it possible that he’s really – Oh god. Is that what I look like too – ? does_ he _think_ I’m _–_

His hand finds hers under the blanket and takes it.

She blinks.

Everything in her head screams _just look away_ or _turn around right fucking now_ because

_this is your last chance, this is it, there’s no coming back after this_

Ellie takes a deep breath and doesn’t look away. She squeezes his hand instead, and the expression on his face warms her heart.

She bites her lip and draws her legs forwards until they reach something knobbly and solid that feels like knees. Her feet travel further down and he lifts his leg a little, allowing them to nestle in between his calves. He doesn’t even wince at how cold they are. All she seems to see in his face, because she’s looking for it, is another flicker of surprise before that softness takes over again. His thumb strokes her hand in one of the tiniest motions she’s ever felt.

Ellie smiles and closes her eyes.

The last thought in her mind before she drifts off is how it really isn’t complicated after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure at this point there will be a sequel or more chapters here because I can't just leave it at that, but I feel like this is it for now.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts, and comments and kudos make my day! <3


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